Not a Review of Richard Herring's Christ on a Bike

Impulsively, I drove my chest infection (and H) up the motorway to Derby. With the spare time that being a student affords, the lure of Richard Herring’s Christ on a Bike had been too hard to resist.

Derby turned out to be a market town that elegantly manages to combine old world charm with a huge bustling Nandos. We got to the venue early for the unallocated seating, a guilty pleasure since I had booked the tickets half an hour before we set off but managed to get an ace second row place. The theatre was one of those municipal types where the bar makes no attempt to over-charge, and the mature usher sits by the door with a kind word for the bewildered. This got me smiling as I sat down. I don’t know if I’m alone in thinking the venue important. My heart sinks when I consider going to Wolverhampton with the high booking fee and the over-zealous security.  I hadn’t considered Derby before but it’s about the same distance away in time (further in miles) and I’d definitely come back.

I had seen the Edinburgh Christ on a Bike, but given the subsequent London run and tour I had expected developments. Naturally, I had seen the Edinburgh version of Herring too but I was unprepared for his new slimmer, smarter look. If ever his girlfriend is to make an honest man of him, she should get on with it this year because the photos will be lovely. The show is more sleek too, pacy, clever and very, very funny.

I never know how to write reviews, so it’s just as well the audience were there for me to eavesdrop at half time. The teenager who began the evening saying this was probably going to be a waste of two hours of her life was in conversation with her dad about the meaning of ‘begat’. An older female relative of hers remarked that she could tell Herring was a brilliant writer because she had to think what he was saying and then he was funny. Meanwhile, the committed fans were going over the recurrent themes, debating their origins. Someone, somewhere said ‘Of course, he used to be big but you never see him now, so I thought I’d come.’ Happily, no one compared him unfavourably with Steward Lee.

They all have a point. Herring’s comedy is full of detail and delivered at a blistering pace. The cleverness is always as much on his sleeve as the cheekiness that allows him to get away with talking about the cock of Christ. It’s a far more demanding gig to sit through that the average comedian, you have to concentrate. Hours and weeks later, bits come back to you in a gut burst of a giggle, in intellectual inquiry. It’s why I love Herring far more than say, Ross Noble (who really makes me laugh on the night, but not after), but I think also why Herring doesn’t fill arenas. That wonderful new Pret-a –Manger joke deserves a big audience though.

There’s a beguiling, child-like quality in the stage Herring. Being so, there’s nothing a child likes as much as an in-joke as between mates. These have grown over the years, and if you’re a nerd for his work, you crave their presence. By the same token, I wonder if they’re the other reason Herring’s not on the telly (please let him be on the telly). The paying punters who weren’t on the inside were left bemused, with no way of bringing them in, save the next laugh, and the next. You get the hang of Herring, or you miss the point and leave half way through.

It was good to take H to see this show. It’s a testament to where dedication to your craft gets you. He pretends it’s all a clever trick, but nobody’s fooled. Even Herring’s yahtzee scores betray his tenacity. The theatrical set pieces succeed due to Herring’s stage experience and hard work as well as the clever construction. He’s at his funniest, enough to make my eyes tear and my ribs ache. In spite of it being a scripted show, he’s effortless in making a second’s problem with a mic stand into cause for a laugh. There’s time for that trademark warm, sweet rapport that keeps us nerdy fans coming back.

Richard Herring is touring all over the UK, some sell outs, but not all. If you haven’t seen him, go give Dee's favorite comedian a try.

If You Love Me

‘Do you love me?...If you love me please will you..’ I say this at least daily to annoy my family. Usually I ask for tea, sometimes for my Love to fetch something from upstairs. I ask Nick to make hot water bottles when he’s warm in bed and almost asleep while I’m wide awake with cold feet. If he refuses, I sulk. Almost always, my Loves go fetching and come back to find that I let the tea go cold, or fall asleep before the hot water bottle is ready, their love having been demonstrated. The whole thing is one of those family intimacies that don’t get shared outside because they’re a bit odd and shameful. A bit like sugar sandwiches.

And so, lovely reader, if you love me please will you watch these two excellent things featuring my favourite comedian, Richard Herring. Only people who can get BBCi-player will be able to demonstrate their love this time, although everyone can look at Herring’s blog which talks about his Mastermind appearance (spoiler alert).

Richard Herring on Celebrity Mastermind

Richard Herring doing stand-up on Russell Howard's Good News Christmas Special from 28.30 if you don't want to see the whole show.

Stewart Lee, Vegetable Stew: A review.

Stewart Lee, Vegetable Stew; Warwick Arts Centre 22.10.10: A Review*


Satisfactory, but that Stewart Lee’s no Richard Herring.
Simon Munnery was supporting. His ‘I know how to kill a dog’ routine was worth the £17.50.
Warwick Arts Centre’s blueberry cupcake wasn’t worth the £1.85.


*I don’t do reviews.

With A Little Help From A Yoghurt Pyjama

After three weeks of unbearable stress, with me weeping and saying I couldn’t go on, Friday arrived. It takes time to adjust to new situations, and perhaps it’s middle age, or just too many aborted life-changing projects, but I’ve struggled to get used to being a student. During a difficult moment between the stacks a couple of weeks ago I stopped still, recognising that I ached for any kind of familiarity. I shouldn't have said it out loud, I was in the silent section with the would-be engineers. The streets all seem to be uphill, the crowds, the maze of corridors, wearing the right clothes, reading from textbooks, getting on the internet, talking to strangers – these things have felt too big and too much.


Prompted by I know not what, I’ve stuck at the homework. I’ve been reading ahead, learning how to print things off, and visiting the library. Every day last week, Nick has arrived home to find me at the dining room table making notes and muttering about microbiology, inclusion, and asylums. He has a new wife, and I’m not sure how much he likes it. He’s been doing way more cooking.

On Friday morning, I walked up to the University. It didn’t seem quite so far. I found my seminar group, a new mix of students from all four kinds of nursing plus some occupational therapists. One of the young women on my course came up to talk to me, and we sat together with another of our cohort who, although in my group, I hadn’t yet met. We shared small-talk and sweets. All of a sudden there was a feeling of happy belonging.

There were mixer exercises, and I found myself for the first time in weeks, being jovial and open. A little later, I was getting on well with someone on the Adult Nursing course when she remarked, “You’re bubbly aren’t you”. I told her I was actually quite shy. It was nice to be likeable. We were asked to say something unique about ourselves. I went for saying that I was a Richard Herring fan. There was a squeak from the woman next to me. She was a fan too. It was a magic moment, as expected, no one else in the room had even heard of Richard Herring. It made the group laugh, and we embraced, enjoying being a little disruptive, quoting from the Someone Likes Yoghurt show.....'yoghurt pyjama....cat....' You had to be there but trust me, it was delightful.

The seminar was fun, and I felt free to contribute properly. I had held back because of my lack of experience in the field of mental health, but decided to let go of that and talk about my time in social care. In valuing my own skills, I was valued. The Herring induced pixie dust didn’t end. I went off down to the library and emailed two lecturers for more information (I had hitherto been reluctant). Then I got talking to the librarian who offered me all kinds of help. The stairs of the library became shallower under my feet, and people seemed to be smiling at me. Especially the young student who offered to get my tea from the machine.

I think that, as they say of five year old children entering school, ‘she is settled and is beginning to make friends’. About time too, some might say. I’m saying ‘thanks’. Richard Herring you’re my lucky charmer.

Edinburgh Fringe 2: Andrew Collins, Catriona Knox, Josie Long, Richard Herring, Gutted.

No forgotten card this morning, so we were able to get hold of the remaining tickets and find Bannamans to be early in the queue for Andrew Collins. I got interested in his work having read his biography of Billy Bragg and enjoy much of his DJ stuff. Most of all, I love the Collings & Herrin podcast, so I was interested to see what he had come up with for his first hour of stand-up. Secret Dancing was a smooth hour to a packed crowd. Nick and I both liked the rythmic description of walk along the streets on recycling day looking at the newspapers, and I enjoyed the secrets of the dance.


It was a good start to the day, and we decided to stay on for the next act but this turned out poor. The young woman interacting only with her PowerPoint, old jokes falling flat while the audience’s chairs got harder and closer together. We drank up and walked around the cobbled streets in search of some shelter from the rain, eventually drawn into the third and fourth free fringe shows of the day: Catriona Knox and Test Tube Comedy. Catriona did a character set, polished and assured and coped with some good natured drunken hecklers. This was the only time we witnessed a comic in these difficulties, and we were glad of it. Test Tube Comedy featured five stand-ups and a guitarist doing short sets. They were all good but the promised e-mailed information has yet to arrive, so I can’t say who they were. This is a shame because they were all good. Not so the toilets in the venue, black walled, freakily mirrored but virtually unlit, I was barely able to see where to - . Well, you get the picture.

The surprise (for us) hit of the festival came next in the form of Josie LongJosie Long. We found ourselves unintentionally and a little reluctantly and the front of the queue and ushered to front seats. We shouldn’t have been Josie’s demographic, and yet she effortlessly charmed us into her world where fathers can be chosen based on their deeds, political or breakfast based. The show worked its way up to an exploration of whether doing good things is enough to Be Honourable. It was cunning, clever stuff from a young woman in long shorts who wore her costume jacket home. After the show, we felt ridiculous asking her to sign a t-shirt for H (it was our original reason for getting tickets as H is a huge fan), but she was easy with it, her real persona little different from her stage one, a little posher of voice and more business-like, in a nice way. She seemed genuinely grateful that we had come to her show, and interested in what we thought of it.

Mission accomplished, we rushed to the other end of town, and to the back of the ginormous queue for Richard Herring’s Christ on a Bike held in a chandeliered theatre as opposed to last year’s cave. I’m extremely partial to his work, and this show doesn’t disappoint. It displays Herring’s writing strengths, irreverent, playful, searching, working in a dangerous topic and yet inoffensive to anyone who listens. The laughs left me breathless, and I look forward to seeing it again in its extended touring form, it’s a little squeezed into the hour at the moment jumping too quickly between sections. Still, my favourite comedian in socks and sandals riding an exercise bike under a chandalier is a joy that will live long in the memory.

The next day, sitting in the beer garden at the Pleasance, I read some reviews. Josie Long and Richard Herring’s shows were two of my favourites of the fringe, but they had each got miserable three stars. Josie’s reviewer seemed to miss the point entirely, mistaking lightness of touch for being lightweight, while Herring’s reviewer seemed to have given three stars on the basis that he had brought back an old show. In future, I'll never believe what I read. We saw Gutted: The Revengers Musical after Herring. It was Ok, but nothing special in my opinion, being as one dimensional as musicals go. Writing this a few days later, I can’t remember a single song, and surely I should. Those tickets were expensive.

It got rave reviews, naturally.

Edinburgh Fringe 1: Four Screws Loose & Stewart Lee's Silver Stewbilee

Nick and I faced a choice this year: week in a caravan with kids and dogs or three day just the two of us trip to the Edinburgh Fringe. We took a stand against middle age and with the kids almost grown up (Nina leaves for Uni in a month and H’s GCSE results are out next week) we decided to test our relationship. I had a fantastic time there with my baby brother last year, and took advantage of Nick’s good natured fringe virginity to go with him in spite of our longstanding observation that we have nothing in common. What could go wrong?
We made it to the fringe box office by mid afternoon. I had intended to collect tickets but had left my card back at base. Luckily, in spite of my cursing, we knew we would be OK until the following day, so we got hold of the magical map of venues and headed for one of the free fringe pubs, a flyer for an act about to start and a flurry of rain were enticement enough for our first act: Four Screws Loose. I held my breath; if Nick hated them, he would probably turn against the entire holiday. Even as the intro music played I reflected that I should have arranged to start with a mainstream act from off of the TV. We were grey, fat people sitting in an audience of mainly students. As it turned out, we loved Four Screws Loose. They were a fetchingly puerile foursome, with well rehearsed, short sketches many of which were excellent. They achieved the unachievable: nob gags that were both original and funny. I was less sure of the Newman and Baddiel style young mocking the old thread, but it was forgivable nonsense. Nick was laughing along and in my relief, I put paper money in the collections bucket, which the young performer seemed overwhelmed about. Perhaps he thought that us oldies wouldn’t go for the talking testis material. Ah, the folly of youth.

We had a stroll about, (Nick had an appropriately Scotch Pie), watched some street performing breakdancers and a cigarette magician, then we wondered up to the Festival Theatre to see Stewart Lee Silver Stewbilee. It was celebratory variety show that lived up to the fan generated hype, offering the looked for key players in Stewart Lee’s career plus Frank Chickens and Franz Ferdinand. As I revealed to a frankly appalled Lee and Herring fan the following day, I like the work of Stewart Lee (as does Nick), but I love Richard Herring (Nick does not). In the light of that, and although I acknowledge Stewart Lee’s artistry, I can’t say the gig set me alight.

Kevin Eldon in character as a poet was confusingly close to reality. I laughed, but Nick didn’t in the same way that Nick laughs at The Office, and I don‘t. Paul Putner did some strange character comedy as a Robin-Williams-alike comic using obscure American references. I’d like to say I got it, but it was over my head. Nick got restless. Simon Munnery brought back the Urban Warrior routine for the occasion which, being rooted in the 80’s has improved with age. Richard Herring came on from his place in the audience shouting and tearing up Stewart Lee’s book. It seemed evident to me that this had been planned, although the dialogue was unscripted and I laughed a lot, but in the interval, and especially as the acts were applauded (or in Herring’s case not applauded) at the end it became clear to me that many people thought that Lee had not been aware that it would happen and were upset on his behalf. Chorlte thought so too, but Richard Herring has since said that it was all planned you be the judge. The ‘in’ jokes of three of the four old friends lent a feeling of divide between those who got the evening and those who didn’t. And strange patterns in the 1500 strong audience of bellowing laughter and embarrassed shuffles were the result. I daresay Stewart Lee may well have intended and enjoyed the effect. Trouble is, I paid for the tickets and to paraphrase the words of Frank Skinner, I like my comedy funny.

We took a taxi back to the Tania B&B which looks nicer on the website than it does in reality but which was still far too good for us even if you count the ‘small double’ bed and the shared bathroom. As it turns out, you can have a lot of fun there.

Flames y'all

In search of something uplifting? Don’t come here. Attempting to stave off the blues, I’ve been seeking out uplifting entertainment. The weather is being all lovely, and as it has improved, I’ve worsened. It is like having seasonal affective disorder in the wrong order. Observing the advice of the therapy group that used to instruct me to lie upon a dirty floor whereupon I would weep, I sought out a bit of uplifting music and comedy (the instructor said to stay away from news and current affairs, that’s no trouble for me, it’s not like avoiding cake).


In these times of futuristic technology, I look to social networking sites for recommendations from ‘friends’ I’ve never met. Now, I love the work of Scroobius Pip. I’m not in his demographic and know nothing of hip hop. His Tweets are often amusing and interesting and it seemed like fate when he recommended an event by the spoken word artist Polarbear. I saw Polarbear at Bestival a few years ago when he was just reciting some poems, I remember that I liked his stuff, so, on impulse, I asked Nina if she would like to come to Warwick Arts Centre to see him.

I knew it was going to be a theatrical piece, but hoped for some of the uplifting hip-hop tunes and sizzling rhyme. Oh dear I wish I could return ‘Return’. We got a 45 minute monologue on the theme of going back home after making it in the wider world. I’m truly impressed that the artist found backing and bookings. He’s ahead of me there (although I’ve never attempted to do either). The handling of the theme was cliché, and the language dull on the whole. If I’d gone to see it as free experimental theatre, I’d be more tolerant, but for £10 a head, never again, not even on Scroobius Pip’s say-so. Nina and I spent a further £2 on McDonalds ice creams and had a laugh together. I forgive Scroob though, maybe hadn’t seen the show.

Today, more sunshine and glums. On Twitter, I saw my favourite comedian, Richard Herring, galvanise his fans into telephoning a company that had called him repeatedly to sell him a new phone service. Initially, I thought the idea amusing, Richard suggested that people try to promote his AIOTM podcast to the firm. I certainly share the frustration with unwanted sales calls, we have them on our landline to the point where we no longer pick up the phone. Gradually though, Herring got replies indicating that their calls were being answered by one particular man who seemed to being progressively baited into swearing. One reply gloated that the man may lose his job. All of this seemed disturbing to me, after all, the calls that Richard received were not this man’s fault, and as an entry level employee, he wasn’t likely to be able to fix Richard’s problem. I chimed in with my dissenting voice, as did one other person, all the rest were into the ‘fun’, or even fun, spirit. Herring responded to us dissenters and seemed to up the game further. I came back to say that much as I liked his work, I was disappointed in him. Richard got back to me personally with, “Herring1967@Dee_Richards I think it's a beautiful piece of mischief. And shows power of Twitter. It will last for an hour. Many of the employees seem to be enjoying it.”.

I was satisfied that my point had been noted with a polite reply. I didn’t and still don’t think he was right. In my opinion, the situation demonstrated, that people who like someone’s work enough to feel some emotional connection will do what they say. It also demonstrates that a smaller number of those people will argue with you in a public domain. Anyway, I cleared off then because Nina came home with a toe curling story of giving blood, which was both amusing and uplifting.

Later though, I found that a stranger, leaping to Richard's defence, had called me a cunt. Wonder what was being dealt with at the call centre? I was momentarily startled, but didn’t reply, and wasn’t upset as I had anticipated I might get flamed. Later still, I picked up this nice message from Richard, ”Herring1967 @Dee_Richards apologies for that guy sending you abusive text. You ate entitled to your opinion and I think you made a good point. Sorry!”. After that, the man who swears at strangers sent me an apology with Richard copied in. I didn’t reply as being found worthy of an apology only after Richard had said so was even more of an insult. At this point, I noticed he had a strange pseudonym (Richard’s name with one letter changed), and then I found a list of names that this man had made. A list that I was on. At that point, I blocked him. Then of course, because I wanted to blog him, I regretted that. But you can’t have everything.

Now, I’m feeling both flat and warmed. How strange, that ‘friends’ who I will never meet, can affect me. There’s a plus side though. The contemplative mood has had me stitching. The quilt’s coming on lovely.

Quilt, Herring Herring, Quilt. Part 2: Herring

Sometimes, even before something has happened, it’s already good. People watching from the window of the upper floor of Burger King, I spied Richard Herring and the cast of As It Occurs To Me (AIOTM) walking below. He was leading slightly and had the look of a man who had won already. That’s the look that has inspired all of those ‘Think Yourself Successful ‘ type self help books. They don’t work of course. You can’t bottle it, it comes and goes, and when a person has it they invariably aren’t aware of it. Still, I knew it would be a fine performance, and it was. It was the best I’ve ever seen him, and I don’t just mean the view from the front, although his eyes are lovely. To be in the presence of a quick minded and skilled performer surfing the laughter of a confident audience is such joy.

I had booked the front row seats when I thought Nina would be coming. Nick was a last minute substitution, and I had told him we were close to the stage, but also said that he was unlikely to be picked on because AIOTM is scripted. I had forgotten that Richard would be doing stand-up first. Oh dear. Herring’s top form performance can be listened to over and over as he had put it out as a podcast for free. Had he charged, I would have paid money to hear my sweet, shy, husband being told that he was an old, Roy Chubby Brown lookalike. I turned away and could hardly listen at the time, but had the impression that Nick had been coping well. Playing it back, I notice Nick’s terse responses. Just before the interval, Herring says ‘..this guy hates me, I think he may not come back.’ The only other time I took Nick to a Herring gig, he nearly walked out during the ‘wanking off paedophiles’ routine. I don’t think he’ll accompany me again. Not even for the golden opportunity to look at maps at the British Museum.

Nick won’t need to see Herring again though because I’ve got fellow Herring fans as mates. That may be taking it a bit too far, but there is a little community of Herring fanciers on face book that is providing a warm glow of familiarity. By not so strange coincidence, many are featured in the show. Unaccountably, star fan the Reverend Peter Organ is not a member of the I Fancy Richard Herring and Am Only Slightly Ashamed To Admit It face book group. His loss.

AIOTM (aiotm) podcast here: http://www.comedy.co.uk/podcasts/as_it_occurs_to_me/

Richard Herring’s new book that one day I’ll get around to writing my thoughts down about is reduced to £6 (lesson: don’t bother advanced ordering from Amazon, you get the book late and pay more) here:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Not-Grow-Up-Memoir/dp/0091932084/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1274570601&sr=1-1

To Me

Thursday 28.1.10

Loads has been happening, but I haven't been able to tell any of my blog followers because I've made the content private until after my nursing interview. This has meant I haven't bothered to write anything down, which is dumb since the blog was always supposed to be mainly for myself. So, here I am rectifying it.

I was pleased with the UCAS application in the end. If I'm unsuccessful, so be it, I did my best. If there are places, I think it will be enough to get an interview. Nina's one for social work was truly brilliant, and if the Universities can't see that, they're crazy. I admit I may be a little bit biased. Having got that done, I went back to my OU studies with renewed vigour and have caught myself up. I got the test results back, which were better than I had anticipated. Everything is encouraging on that front.

Nick and I went to Cardiff and then on to Cornwall for a long weekend. We got on really well, without the bickering which so often happens if we spend too much time together with raised expectations. We did the full on grown up thing in Cardiff and stayed in the Novotel, which had a bed lined with memory foam, a leisure club changing room mid-redecoration, and a bad chef. It was swanky overall, much the most luxurious place we've ever stayed in in this country. We were in Cardiff for the Collings and Herrin Podcast that I so love. It was good, with Andrew Collins' fabled Secret Dancing, some Stand-Up from Richard Herring, and a great podcast in a brilliant atmosphere, all light and warm. Some photos I took have been published by Andrew Collins and I am childishly delighted. The hotel breakfast was glorious. I had at least four courses. Una Stubbs, the real one from off of Summer Holiday and Worzel Gummidge, just had coffee. She smiled at me a bit. Then looked a bit askance as I went up for pastries a second time. I may have imagined that bit. We wanted to see more of Cardiff, but the rain was so penetrating, that we just drove down for a peep at the Millennium Plaza, then went on up the motorway.

Cornwall went well too, with me and Mum having fun, Nan (post 99th birthday) in good spirits. Nick and I met up with our old friend S in her new house, and went out for a nice meal. Nick's Mum was glad that I brought back her freshly repaired anniversary tablecloth quilt that I had hung on to intending to work on since the summer. The only thing missing from the weekend was my dog Darcy who had to stay at hope because, quite unreasonably to my mind, the Novotel don't accommodate dogs in their £95 a bed rooms. Not even for £95.

As It Occured to Us

Monday 16.11.09

For weeks, I've been hankering to see Richard Herring's As It Occurs To Me live. It aims to have the qualities of a radio show without the censor, is recorded live and goes out as an unedited podcast. I thought he made a disappointing start, but it came on leaps and bounds and I love it. Nina took pity on me, or perhaps got tired of my whinging, and offered to take me to London for my Christmas prezzie to see the show.
We had a good trip down on the coach. I was confident enough about the travel sickness tablets working not to overdose on them as I did last time, although I still slept on the coach and was dozy for an hour afterwards. we were in very good time for the show and killed an hour or so walking about Chinatown and Theatreland looking at the lights, the people, and the fabulously decorated sponge cakes in the window of the Chinese bakery.

I had spotted a homeless man partially hidden in the shadows of a doorway opposite the Leicester Square Theatre and, as we approached him on our second circuit, although he wasn't asking for money, I offered him a couple of pounds. He had some cans lined up but seemed quite sober and sane, telling us in an Eastern European accent that he stayed around here because it was close to the church, telling us about his faith and how he would prey for us. It was a nice interaction, and we said goodbye and walked on. Nina asked me why I stopped in the first place and I tried to explain that although when I was young I would have said that it wasn't right to give to beggars and that the only way was to support charities, I no longer feel this way. I had eaten and thought that the homeless man might like to, but if he wanted to drink, then a couple of quid would make no difference to his addiction and might take the chill off. We talked about the rights and wrongs of this for a while, and came back full circle again, about to go into the venue.
It was then that the homeless man called us over. He began by saying that he had been thinking since we had been gone and had said to himself "Why did I not ask this question?". He asked if we had some time and I said that we needed to get going but would see him when we got out. He kept us talking and said he only needed a minute and would ask now. Nina and I looked towards each-other, both of us thinking he was going to talk to us about religion and that this would be awkward. He took a deep breath, and looked at Nina,
"You, I think, are too young." now looking at me, "But you, I say to you, I am a very sexual man but look for love also".
He went on for a minute or so with both Nina and I too stunned to speak. It was the first time anyone has proposed marriage to me (I proposed to Nick, but that's another story). Here I was on a street around the corner from Leicester Square being proposed to by a virtually sober, almost clean, homeless man. It was awkward, and funny, and sad. Where were my liberal principles now?
"So, what I ask is how you are fix?", he said.
I explained that I was married. He looked crestfallen and was apologetic. I tried to be as nice about it as I could. We said goodbye hurriedly.

As we went into the theatre, Nina pointed out that nothing we heard tonight would be as funny. She was correct. We talked about it and giggled about it. At her suggestion, we put our hands up during the audience participation part of the show, and it got a big laugh from the audience. Clearly, we were only willing to go so.. far in our bid to help the homeless. Had I not have been married, it might have worked though. A genius solution to the problem of vagrancy, well done that tramp. He wasn't there as we came out. It was just as well.

Waiting for the midnight coach at Victoria, a middle-aged besuited Asian man was eyeing Nina up. He moved seats several times so as to get a good all-round view. We resorted to laughing over this too, I asked Nina if she was merely jealous since he hadn't yet proposed.

Here's the podcast, we are 33.5 minutes in to episode 5:
www.comedy.org.uk/podcasts/as_it_occurs_to_me/
but listen to the whole thing and ten subscribe on itunes because it is excellent.

Thursday 9.7.09

Lots of bits and bobs to say about today, a patchwork of bright pink, yellow and peuce. Ah yes, the metaphores confirm it, I'm firmly back in sewing mode.

I bought a paper at the supermarket today. The headline read 'We won't bury Michael without his brain'. It was a bit of sensationalist nonsense, the coroner had retained the brain to run more tests to establish cause of death and the family weren't ready to go ahead with the funeral anyway. At the counter, the shop assastant scanned the page. "Eww", she said "What are they going to do, put it in the coffin beside him?" I didn't reply, not certain if she intended her words as a joke, or if she wanted an answer. No, they would replace it in the scull and cover the wound with some fabric. She continued, "That's disgusting, what do they want his brain for anyway?" I made a non-commital grunt and, feeling nauseous now, stumbled away. Unfortunately, I had already ordered lunch.

The conversation, and something else I had heard lately (I think it might have been Andrew Collins on the Collings & Herrin podcast but I might be wrong) got me thinking. I had heard Collins? count up the number of dead people he had seen. It was very few. I began to add up my own body count. The count starts with Jack, Nan's former husband who died an old man in a Mental Health Hospital. I remember my Mum, very sensibly taking me in to see him and saying that there was nothing to be afraid of and that if I looked this time, I would always be alright about it. I was around fourteen at the time. As it turned out, she was correct, I wasn't traumatised at the time, nor subsequently when I saw my Great Aunt Lily minutes after she had died. This was a little more unpleasant as she was someone I had known and her face had been in its raw state and not sculpted into a mask of peace by undertakers.

In total, I have seen eight people dead. Most of them people I had supported. In a lot of those cases, I dealt with the formalities. It is a complex business, with many small decisions to make, any of which can cause distress. On one occasion, a member of staff had made a floral arrangement that I had transported in my car. I then forgot it was there, so that the arrangement missed the funeral, I was in disgrace. Another time, a member of staff was upset at the thought that the most economical coffin (people with learning disabilities tend not to be wealthy) was made in a light colour laminate. The charity I was working for stumped up the extra £100 for the darker colour. It felt a bit like the debates I used to have with staff about the finish of fitted kitchens. I once stood with a large group of people. It had fallen to me to scatter Ray's ashes, institutionalised from childhood, he had no known family. When it came tome to open the casket, I found the ashes were tightly sealed in plastic. I tried without success to break the seal. Someone went for scissors. It was a long wait.

The last of the dead that I have seen was Great Uncle Stephen. It was the toughest because I had practically grown up with him. There had been an autopsy. There almost always is, cause of death has to be found, and it can't be helped. My Mum was outraged, and there was a further furore when the lab took a postage sized slide of tissue. Strenuous efforts were made to get it back in time for the funeral, it had become the focus of her grief.

Maybe experience has made me a bit detached about the mechanics of the dead, or perhaps it is another of my less pleasant character traits. The way I experience it, once dead, the person has gone. The body is just a shell, poignant, and deserving of respect, but ultimately unimportant. I grieved for the people, not what remained. To be honest, what remained looked only fleetingly like them in any case. In Stephen's case, when shown him in his solid oak coffin (a family tradition of only the best) I had a mad thought that I was being shown another body, it looked so unlike him. His hands were his own but his face was not.

The headline made me weary. Death is an everyday reality. The examination of the dead just as real. The front cover of the Mirror and the reaction of the shop worker I hope don't represent the attitudes of most people. Yet both had left me feeling disconcertingly set apart.

Nina and I went to see Richard Herring at the Hare & Hounds in Birmingham. I had been looking forward to it. The venue has a bit of history, a lot of my heroes have performed there, not least Frank Skinner in his earliest career. Worries about finding it proved unfounded, and there was a great atmosphere. I was a bit jittery having left home in a bad temper, but left feeling good. There was a nice compere, a good opening act who's best gag compared the copying of CD's to the possibilities of developing a machine for copying handbags and then giving the original back to the owner, no harm done. You had to be there. Richard Herring, who is so much my favorite performer of the year, was in stunning form. It was interesting to see his latest show Hitler Mustache in embryonic form. Even at this point, it is stunning. Completely original, intelligent, and crafty. Tellingly, both Nina and I enjoyed it. I'm glad I've booked for my brother Rich and I to see it at the Edinburgh festival.

Wednesday 10.6.09

An eerily productive day today, considering I got very little done. A contradiction for certain, but true. Grey matter firing up nicely.

I was up in good time today but took the computer back to bed thinking I would get some writing done. I didn't, but read some interesting stuff, including a lot more for Richard Herring's blog, Warming Up. He has kept it up every day since 2003 which is an enviable achievement. On top of that, a lot of it is a good read. I'm up to November 2006. http://www.richardherring.com/warmingup/

An hour or so of my afternoon was taken up on Facebook with my friends S and E riffing tea and cake jokes off each other. I think we made up a lot of good stuff, shame it gets lost in the ether. Will it work reprinted here?
S: "I tried to commit suicide by sticking my head in the oven but there was cake in it."
D: "Was it Death by Chocolate?"
or this?
S: “My therapist told me the way to achieve true inner peace is to finish what I start. So far today, I have finished 2 bags of M&M's and a chocolate cake. I feel better already.”
D: "Shit, I was done, mine just told me to have a milky drink before bed. He suggested he come over to administer it, but I couldn't afford the fees."
I think you had to be there. We had a good time though.

I had run out of teabags. That never happens. Tea is very, very important to me, and I felt strange without it. Like when I used to leave the baby with someone. Something big was missing, except it wasn't big, just some dried leaves in a paper pouch that can be soaked in water then thrown away. I had a very brief thought that I wouldn't go and get more, just as an experiment to see what happened. I've temporarily given up several foodstuffs over my lifetime: meat, butter on bread, junk food, chocolate, cake, pastry, milk in tea. Never tea itself though. As I was thinking this, I was drinking a cup of skimmed milk. Why am I always so fat? I drink skimmed milk for goodness sake. Surely the French Fancies are not betraying me. Only 105 calories each they tell me. That's for one serving, a box of eight surely. It was the shortest giving up of a foodstuff on record, twenty seconds. I went out for teabags. There was never any doubt.

Later that afternoon, I sat in McDonalds with my notebook and my first cup of the tea of the day. I couldn't write anything, but was feeling observant. There was a man with a small child, about a year old. I watched him put her safe in a high chair. He left his keys and credit card on the table and disappeared. Seconds later, he was back with a balloon that he tied to her dress. She pulled on the string a few times. He shared his fries with her, picked up her hat twice when she had looked up at the balloon and it had fallen from the back of her head. The two were engaged with each other but absolutely silent. It was like an exercise in non-verbal communication, quite beautiful.

In a communications contrast, there was a shouting, masculine, midlands accented voice. With the tones that an adult will only use towards a child. "You're so disgusting, you're the only one in here doing it, STOP DOING THAT. You will be taken out YOU WILL BE", a reverberating slap, shrill screaming. It was enough to quieten the place down.

Went to B&Q to get a loo seat. Not much has changed, and I remembered the aisle numbers, go me. Nick was great and fixed it on as soon as he got home. I also bought a big load of bin bags as I aim to throw out some old clothes tomorrow, feeling a bit inspired since Nina and I did all the good work yesterday. Tomorrow I might feel different though. It's time to get on with stuff. That's for certain.

Tuesday 2.6.09

Today's big thing was going to see Richard Herring do his last performance of the Headmaster's Son. It wasn't just that though, it was a big day in lots of ways.

At the eleventh hour, Nina's friend H was able to come with us so that the ticket abandoned by my brother didn't go to waste. We needed to get to Bristol for 8pm but decided to head off around 2 in the spirit of a day out. P brought his sat-nav which was a fantastic help.

The fun started outside out front door. A disembodied voice shouting 'Wankers' repeatedly. She didn't seem to be shouting at anyone in particular, just at the world in general. We all fell about laughing, but couldn't see the person responsible, which seemed a bit of a shame. That kind of comedy is hard to top.

We got to the Tobacco Factory in Bristol just after 4.30. It's a big space, in a regeneration area which is both poor and arty making for an unusual mix of inhabitants. There were lots of small shops beginning to close, and no evening places open. I was hot, tired, and - most importantly - without a hat. The sun was incredibly strong and I knew that I might well get a headache that would ruin my evening. We were practically thrown out of a shop by a gnome like woman 'are you going to buy anything because I'm closing', so we slunk away to find a park. We found one in the end, but I was conscious that by this time I was dithering and being selfish, old, and an arse. N, H, & P went and played in the sun, they had been incredibly kind to me which says a lot for them as I didn't deserve it. I sat on a bench under a tree watching men practicing their tightrope skills. I did a bit of writing which I haven't dared to re-read, it might be brilliant, but I suspect not.

We went in search of tea but ended up eating Londis sandwiches at a bus stop.

Back at the Tobacco Factory things started to improve. We went in well after Doors Open as I didn't feel like being at the front (the performance was being filmed for DVD). We split up, and I sat next to a retired man, light skinned with a red nose, much the worse for drink. He engaged me by asking if I was a teacher, going on to say that he thought a lot of teachers would come in order to reminisce because of the title. Alarm bells began to ring. I asked him if he had seen the performance before, he said not. Under questioning, I told him that I had seen it and had come again because it was really good. 'Ah, so we'll enjoy it' he said. I thought not, trying to imagine how he would deal with the wanking off paedophiles routine (or even any of the routine at all). Nina rescued me and H by finding seats for us together elsewhere, watching me from across the way had given her and P a good giggle. I couldn't help but keep an eye on my new friend. He and his wife didn't laugh the whole time. He fell asleep for a while, and they left in the interval.

Richard Herring was on good form and had an appreciative crowd. I have loved Headmaster's Son and was pleased I made the long journey for the last performance. I'm sad it was the last one, but it's a relief in a way because I've got a bit obsessed with parts of it, it has caught me up so that although I've seen it four times I still can't quote it. I thought Herring was a bit quick and nervy to start, but that he did the stronger parts of the routine better than ever. H and P who hadn't seen the show enjoyed it, which I was glad about because I was conscious that it isn't to everybody's taste and wouldn't have wanted to offend them.

We got back to Coventry at 1am. I was incredibly touched that P who had control of the mp3 player put Pulp on for me as he knows I like them without me asking him. Kindness beyond the call of duty. H and P sensibly stayed over, and along with Nina, got off early to work. I was glad of the thought of a lie in.

Is a disembodied voice shouting 'wanker' funnier than Richard Herring? No, but she did have that one brillant piece of material.

www.richardherring.com

www.tobaccofactory.com

Friday 22.5.09

Nick woke me up early this morning. He doesn't normally do this and most days I don't even notice him getting up. I came awake fast and was a little jittery, in the middle of one of those dreams where I'm under threat from an unknown force. I don't know if I acted a bit oddly, hopefully not, because Nick was very sweet. It was nice to spend some time together even if it was at a strange time of day (to be fair to Nick, the time was not that strange to people with normal sleep patterns, probably about 7am).

When I woke up again, I mistook the time and thought I had slept through 'till lunch. It was a couple of hours before I realised it was only 10.30am. I was horribly disorientated by that time. I had wasted time listening to Jarvis Cocker do radio interviews promoting his new CD. I've heard it a couple of times, and I don't think it's all that good, but I might change my mind. I didn't like This is Hardcore until the 20th listen, then it became one of my favorites.

Amazon sent me the final David Baddiel book, The Secret Purposes. It is an historical novel. I don't generally read them, so we'll see if I finish it. In my shallow way, I find that I don't like the cover, which is a kind of smudged ballroom dancing. It has started to put me off already. I've invested a fiver though, so I need to get on with it to get my value for money.

I got quite a bit of writing done today. Most importantly, I was pleased with what I wrote yesterday. I have over 3000 words to send down to Sami. There's just one problem. It's a technical issue, just like my old English teacher, Mr Fee warned me about. I have poor spelling, but thanks to spellcheckers that hasn't been so important since 1990. You can judge my punctuation for yourself, going by this blog, I don't think it's too bad. What you can't judge is my punctuation of speech. If you think about it, it's not a skill that's in demand generally, but I find that I need it to write the novel. I'm going to have to get hold of a book about grammar or the one or two people that I'm going to inflict the book on (I don't expect to be able to get it published) won't be able to work out who's talking. Anyway, I've got one chapter from the middle of the book to pretty much ready to show around. It's a sort of dark romance. If you fancy a read, let me know and if I like you, I'll email it to you. I never said it was any good mind.

The biggest thrill for the day was that I replied to a Richard Herring joke on Twitter, and he replied to me. It was a conversation about writing, so it felt strangely appropriate. He was writing from his hotel room in Geneva, I was writing from my living room in Coventry, and he was correct, he could have been anywhere. Anyway, he's done 8000 words this week, which is a lot more than me, and he's very funny. Git.

Nina and I went for a walk with Darcy this evening and she told me her plot for a book she doesn't think she'll write. It's brilliant. Much better than mine. Git.

Wednesday 6.5.09

Feeling up-beat today, so firmed up plans to go to Cornwall and while I'm there, see two old schoolfriends. It should be an interesting visit as lots is going on for my brother R as well. All I needs is some good weather and Darcy & I will be in our natural element. I want to get out to the seaside at sunset, both because this would be nice, and also for writing purposes. As I stood in the kitchen cooking jacket potatoes, I started to get nervous, but I have some confidence that it will go well, so long as I can stop myself from saying anything dreadful. Unfortunately, I always have the potential for that, but so far so good. I spent a fair bit of this afternoon laughing on Facebook with S over the 'french fancies fetish' (her most excellent alliteration). Good vibes for good times.

I am reading a new book, Time For Bed by David Baddiel. An insomniac reading about insomnia. The writing is patchy, some great paragraphs infilled with stuff that's much less certain. It was his first novel though, so I am feeling forgiving of it. Amazon also sent me a Stewart Lee Stand-Up Comedian DVD. I loved the excerpts I saw on Youtube but couldn't settle to watch it today. I was settled enough by teatime to watch The Apprentice, which is becoming fantastic. Each year's reality TV shows come around, I get myself involved in them, then they are gone, and I forget them. A poor use of time, apart from the bonding time they give me with Nina, and so, a good use of all to those hours.

Darcy had another walk through the woods next to Hearsall Common. It was the way a broad-leaf wood is meant to be; canopy of freshly grown sunlit foliage, squirrels sitting on drifts of dry fallen leaves then running up tree trunks, the song of blackbirds and the sound of smaller creatures in the undergrowth juxtaposed with of the chimes of an ice-cream van. The background grumble of traffic didn't seem to matter. I took some pictures, but they don't do the scene justice, especially the bluebells which were numerous enough to spread their scent across the paths, making me think of Yardley soaps. I didn't see any fairies, or wood elves, or even hobbits, but I could have been in a Tolkein landscape.

On the way back from the woods, I stopped off to give Nina's friend A my copy of Someone Likes Yogurt (the DVD that has Richard Herring talk about the possibility of putting a live trout into the vagina of a 16 year old girl) for his birthday, but I will order myself a new one. A is 18 today, so I can now say I have known him 'man and boy'. I only want to say that because I find the phrase apposite and nostalgic all at once. The DVD was for the 'man' A, I also gave him a jumbo pack of Swizzlers sweets for the 'boy' who I hope will never entirely grow up.

Someone suggested I should put in links to other websites. I don't know how to do that properly, but if you can't Google for yourself:

http://www.richardherring.co.uk/ I think you can find Facebook and Youtube on your own, the clue is in the name.

Friday 17.4.09

Drove H, Nina & her friend A over to Stafford today. Holly has been liking some of the Richard Herring DVD's I've been into, so I thought I would see Headmaster's Son one more time, and take A for a Birthday treat, because I thought he might like it as well. Nina had to come too, because she's Nina.

I had never been to Stafford before. All that struck me was the quietness on a Friday night. There was no noise from pubs, we couldn't find a takeaway, there was no rubbish on the streets. It took a bit of time to find the venue, a grand old civic building, well renovated, that seemed too big for the town. The staff were amazing, friendly and welcoming. Thankfully, we were able to buy the few sandwiches left over from lunch. So we talked nonsense while the place filled up around us.

I'm reluctant to say how much I like Headmaster's Son. I'm on my third go now, and find more in the material each time. I'm sad that this had to be the last time I saw it, but it would just be silly to see it again. Tonight's was the strongest performance of the three, and no one walked out. I was seated amongst people who were enjoying it, which made the experience all the better. There was a sense of the fabulous alchemy that can happen between a performer and an audience. It was great that A seemed to enjoy it too. Nina, H & A all found the second half more difficult, but this is unsurprising given that it is about how past and future meld and they haven't got a past yet. For me, the second half is the best of it, although I agree there are fewer laughs.

We went home via McDonalds as A requested. Once we were back home, Nina went out again to go drinking. I tried not to feel resentful, and gave her a lift. Then I had a bad feeling about her being out, as though something would go wrong, so I waited up. this was stupid, as she was fine and got in at 2.30am sober and cheerful.

Sunday 22.3.09

Mothers' Day. I find it difficult to decide my views on this little what?...... festival? feast day? day of holy obligation? As a little girl, I made a Mothers' Day card at school. When I proudly presented it, my Mum told me that Mothers' Day was not about mothers, but about Christians being obliged to visit the church where they had been christened, and was called Mothering Sunday. She put the card to one side and seemed to forget about it, it faded and gathered dust until I threw it away myself. I was so hurt that I have never given her a Mothers Day card since. There was a stand off in about 1986 when she found I had given a card to Nick's Mum, my Mum then said she did want a card of her own. Well, she didn't say, she shouted for quite a long time in quite a confusing way so that I was even more determined to reject all cards with flowers and kittens and naff humour, and words of thanks. Until I got my first one as a mum. Every year I tell my family not to worry about Mothers' Day and every year they give me cards and flowers and sometimes chocolates or a hand made something because they know it matters to me very much indeed. This year's cards are on the mantle in our bedroom, along with a photo that H took which came in a nice frame, gift wrapped. I've eaten the walnut whips. The pink carnations are in the kitchen window. I love being a mum.

I woke up in positive mood today. Nick and I went to Halfords to replace the front numberplate that had been torn off the car on StPatricks night. I paid an extra £5 to have it fitted by a lovely man who evidently enjoyed the manual task that Nick would have hated. We went to the Memorial Park that was filled with up-beat people as it was sunny, and Sunday, a winning combination. Its funny how I can't remember what we talked about, but remember that we were happy.

I've been watching the Richard Herring DVD, Manage a Un. As well as finding it very funny, I'm full of admiration of the out take where he offends the partner of a heckler to the extent that they walk out. The script changes radically, and Herring ad-libs to a point where he picks it up again, keeping the audience with him. This is better than the standard script, though I can see why he didn't put it in the main DVD. The completest in me yearns to get the DVD's that I don't have. Two to go, I believe. It occurred to me that as I was making family roast dinner and watching the Old Men on Fire routine, Richard was about to go on stage in Manchester (I know this because of Twitter). We are the same age, of similar background and education, and yet so unbelievably different. Uniqueness is a wonderful thing. When I first watched Headmasters' Son I felt jealous of the expertise, status and freedom of a 41 year old stranger and thought maybe I had made a critical error with my life. Today, enjoying the more commonplace competence of cooking a good dinner, and the company of my family, I felt that I had the better deal. Now that's the mawkish sentimentality of Mothers' Day for you.

Saturday 21.3.09

I've had a week away from Blogging. It's difficult to pinpoint the reasons why I didn't write something every day. I went to Cornwall last weekend, was Internet-free and lost the habit. Now, I feel silly because it has been quite an eventful week, and there would have been lots to write about. I feel a bit of a fraud playing catch-up now, but some things have got to be worth a mention.

The weekend in Cornwall was much more pleasant than I had anticipated. Nan's house was as clean as I've seen it in some time, and she had been eating quite well, so I was reassured. I stood in the garden and breathed in the smell of spring, probably the smell of wet leaves warming up and rotting, but mixed in with it, the scent of celandine and gorse blossom. Darcy and I went to Portreath and bounded up and down the sand. He showed off his ability to predict how far each wave would wash in so that barely his toenails got wet. The surf was white and roaring. Sunset came on so that the sky was turquoise, yellow, pink and purple. It felt good to be alive in that place. March until early May is the best time to be in Cornwall, it becomes a sensory paradise for this little time, before it gets busy and the locals put their frowns on.

I took Mum and I out to the posh garden centre restaurant for joint birthday meal. We both seemed to have a good time, and didn't seem to offend each other. Far too much food was eaten, including strawberry cheesecake that was out of this world, and £5 each but I didn't begrudge it.

I was in Cornwall not for the cheesecake or the sunset, but to get Nan to her eye checkup at Helston. Even this went smoothly. The other times, Nan has got anxious during the time leading up to it, and panicky in the car. This time, she was calm and pleasant. The mood seemed to have been brought on by a dream where she had been walking upright, free from pain.

Back in Coventry, the morning after StPatrick's night faced us with a broken windscreen, and later spotted broken number plate. these things have taken days to get fixed and were an unexpected expense. Nick and I laughed at our initially xenophobic response. I expect that we were right that it was caused by a customer from the Irish club around the corner, drunk on StPatrick's night. It could be coincidence though.

I went to see Richard Herring's show, The Headmaster's Son at the Spa Centre Leamington. This was a second go as it had affected me badly first time round, and I wanted to know if my extreme reaction was caused by the show, or if it was just me being silly. I went on my own and got there early. I rapidly lost confidence about being on my own. I'm afraid people did look at me funny, though I did brazen it out quite well. Tickets were unallocated so I seated myself quite early, on the third row, expecting the seats to fill in around me. Unfortunately, they didn't and two seats were left to either side so I felt I had a conspicuous island like quality. Oddly, I thought, the first row only half filled. Perhaps people were afraid of being picked on. If I had taken Nina, we would have sat at the front, she sees that as her rightful place, and not just because she is short.

I found myself immersed in the show and laughed a lot more than last time. The audience seemed more responsive with some quite big groups of people, mostly young men laughing together. Richard's first half was storming. He got the pace and delivery so very right. There were subtle facial expressions and body movements that synced with the content. The second half is a more reflective read, and I was anxious in case I got upset again. Richard came on with eyes quite bloodshot as though all of his energy had evaporated. The delivery was gentle and I felt more of the sweet nostalgia that I think was intended, as opposed the the piercing self doubt that I had experienced last time. I dropped £5 into the charity bucket.

So, Saturday 21st arrived. I spent the day in bed avoiding the Children and their friends. I could hear them all out on the Green having a laugh and playing Frisbee. Teenage voices now, so I didn't have to supervise, which was just as well. Nick came up for a while, then left, so I felt a bit used and abandoned, although there was no need to feel this. I fell asleep, waking at 8pm, then watched some online TV comedy. Strangely for all that, I went to sleep quite early, and slept sound. Next morning, the whole thing could be put down to PMT.

Tuesday 10.3.09

It seems that I'm in a phase of quiet days. I was a little more adventurous than yesterday, a very little.

Today's activities:

read a couple of chapters of Frank Skinner

got up

had shower

weighed self: good news, same as last month, 16st4lbs

watched new dvd, Richard Herring Oh Fck I'm 40, OK, but not too amazing - extras dreadful

cooked chips (2 portions)

tidied around

talked to kids

groomed Darcy

cooked family tea

browsed on Internet

watched Holby, plot so bad I'm considered giving it up

watched Collings & Herrin video podcast

That's it.

Not much to look back on then, all things considered.

That's about it

Saturday 7.3.09

I woke up feeling truly miserable and the feeling didn't lift all day, although I've tried to keep a lid on it. Nick has been kind and attentive. He thinks its his fault, but it isn't, not at all. Thankfully the kids have been out with their friends all day and again in the evening so they haven't been affected.

A comedy show is supposed to be funny isn't it? Ok, sometimes comedy can make you think, be a bit subversive, they call it edgy these days I believe. I wasn't expecting last night's comedy to make me miserable today, and I'm sure its not the impact that Richard Herring had in mind when he wrote his routine. Its not the paedophile section that's upset me either, not one bit, even if some of the audience did walk out. Right at the end, in a no jokes way, Richard talks about meeting his ex-girlfriend after a twenty year gap. He concludes that if, as a young man he had been asked to choose between pursuing his dream of being a comic, and marrying his first love, he would have chosen comedy, which, inevitably he did.

In my sleep, I must have been mulling it over. I took the opposite approach to Richard, stayed with my first love, had children, the whole domestic thing. I put that before other ambitions to some extent although I pursued some of them for a while. Now, I love Nick hugely, deeply, amazingly, with passion and tenderness. I am loved. The 'but' is that (if I exclude the house and children, a big 'if', I accept), we have nothing in common. Less and less each year. We don't like the same music, TV, films, comedy, hobbies.... We vaguely cross over on politics, neither of us like sport, we love our pets. It feels like that's all. We've become two people who can sit and eat together while reading the paper. That's our joint activity. It was brought home to me when, last night I told Nick I was sorry that he hadn't liked the show and he said he had a lovely evening because the curry was nice. Selfish of me, certainly, but that just didn't feel enough.

When I had the depression badly, one of the less useless things I was told by the medical establishment to do was to imagine what a good friend would say to me. So, in this case, my good friend says to share some of the things he likes. The thing is, he doesn't do much. Its just impossible to get into reading something just because someone else likes it. I'm never going to be able to appreciate the aeroplanes of the second world war. I need to write this, but write it small What if I had finished with him when I went to college? Did we stick together because neither of us had the courage to be alone? Because we were both nerdy fat kids? I blame you, Richard Herring.

The weather was nice today. Proper spring. Nick and I walked Darcy around the memorial park, went for lunch in the supermarket. I spent the afternoon watching Dave Gorman on Youtube. Nick went to the office party alone, as planned. I left him to prepare his culinary contribution alone and refused to give him a lift. He solved both problems himself. The episode of Casualty was a good one this evening, and finally I am relaxed.

Nick, if you read this, you need to know that this is the truth: I love you forever, no doubt, and no (significant) regrets. I love you. My dreams were never that good anyway.